


The Anointment

by vesper_house



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU (Movies), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Clark, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse, Sacrilege, Top Bruce, demon Clark, if I'm going to hell it's definitely because of this, mention of murder, more Christian imagery than MoS and BvS combined, priest Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper_house/pseuds/vesper_house
Summary: After Robin's death, Bruce gave up his wealth and vigilantism to become a priest. He lived quietly for years. Someone is about to disturb his peace.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If religion is important to you, you should click the x button right now. Otherwise your feelings will probably get hurt. Proceed with caution.
> 
> To others I say: happy Halloween!

He always comes on Friday at 3 AM.

Bruce can feel his presence well before he sees him. When he enters the room, for a fraction of a second everything is blurred, stretched, like all of the molecules suddenly have shifted, drastically pulled in by his force field. A weird aura surrounds him. Darkness, but nothing like the consoling shadows of the night: it carries a feeling of hollowness, desolation, icy infinity of the space above.

The sound of clock ticking is almost brutal to the ears. Bruce is on his knees, praying with everything he has left in front of a small cross hanging on the wall. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua sicut in caelo et in terra…”

The air in his modest bedroom changes abruptly. Bruce shuts his eyelids.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie; et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris…”

There is a swooshing noise behind Bruce’s back. Beads of perspiration form on his brow. He tries to pretend he did not hear it. He fails.

“…et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.”

The lights go out and the clock stops ticking.

“Amen.”

The cross falls to the floor with a quiet thud.

“Your God isn’t here with you.” A pleasant voice tears down the silence. “But I am.”

Bruce is shaking. Cold sweat runs down his spine. It is hard, it always was and only gets harder with every visit from the strange creature. After all, a test of faith should not be easy… but he never, ever thought it would be like _this_. Not a burning fire, not a promise of saving his beloved ones, not a guarantee that justice will finally rule the world…

“Aren’t you tired of telling lies?”

…but temptation in its most potent form, present since the dawn of time. Many names it had, oh yes, each of them spoken with terror by God-fearing people. But fear turned into superstition, superstition to joke, and there is not much faith in the world anyway.

The visitor slowly gets closer. Bruce keeps his eyes closed, hands still folded tightly. He breathes deeply, trying to recite passages from the Bible in his mind, albeit none of them seem reassuring. _“And he spake a parable unto them, can the blind lead the blind? Shall they not both fall into the ditch?”_

The creature stands in front of him. Bruce cannot concentrate any longer. “Look at me,” the creature demands, his voice like honey: makes one wonder if his mouth is as sweet as the words he spills so eagerly. Bruce almost, _almost_ listens. His whole body sings with want, but he has always been stubborn; that sheer stubbornness might be his last stand.   

The lights are on again. Bruce knows it is just a trick and keeps still. Then he feels a strange sensation on the skin of his left hand, like gentle tickling, scratching… something moving smoothly. Bruce carefully opens his eyes and sees a very small snake slithering out of his sleeve. The animal has the color of ivory, of ghostly things. It crawls its way to Bruce’s laced fingers, stops, and proudly presents sharp, deadly fangs. This is what makes Bruce look up. Once again, he is stunned. Speechless.

If he made himself known to the public, people would definitely believe that Kal-El is the awaited savior. His posture is manly but full of grace, his face a gift from the God Himself, crowned with thick, dark locks, as soft as the fleece of the Lamb – clean contrast to his pale skin and crimson wings. Looking at him is like looking at the full moon on a starry night. Allure older than time. Bruce’s heart beats faster. The snake is gone.

“You haven’t been a man of God for a very long time now, Bruce.” Kal-El smiles gently, like a loving father ready to embrace the prodigal son. “Why do you still think He’d listen to your prayers, hmm? Not that He ever cared…” The creature takes a step forward. Bruce kneels in a circle, drawn in hurry with a piece of chalk and blessed with holy water. So far it was enough to keep Kal away from him, but they both know that the symbols are only as strong as the faith of a man who is using them – otherwise they have no power.

They stare at each other for a moment – Bruce petrified but unbent, Kal impish – and the intruder gets inside of the circle. Nothing happens. Kal falls to his knees to face Bruce. This is the first time when they are so close, nearly body to body. Bruce does not dare to interrupt as Kal takes his hands. He examines them like they are a gift that was promised, and then slowly lowers his head. A gesture older than time, more delicate than the first infatuation. Bruce cradles the demon’s face like a lover, feels the warmth of his cheeks and _good Lord, my Lord, you must help me._ Kal looks dreamy. He obviously takes pleasure from the caress – eyes closed, lips smiling.

“Would you like me more if I was hanging on a cross?” He asks fondly. “Is that the price for your love?” Bruce stays quiet, trying to ignore Kal’s long, dark lashes, mouth the color of a cracked pomegranate…

“Get out” he hisses. Kal’s eyes fly open, blinding Bruce with an unearthly shade of blue. “Or maybe you’d like to see me whipped? Weak and defeated… Lying at your feet…” His lips tentatively touch Bruce’s right hand. “Begging for mercy… Apologizing for sins I didn’t commit… Bleeding, perhaps? Is that what it takes to get on your good side?”

“I don’t want anything to do with you.” Bruce is a little dizzy from the luscious smell of rose oil the demon seems to emit. “A beautiful lie,” Kal says, “just like the ones you keep telling people in the church. Why such a brilliant man insists on making a fool of himself?”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere” Bruce snarls, angry to the bone. “You’re right,” Kal’s smile turns from charming to wicked. “Actions speak louder than words.” For a moment shorter than a single heartbeat, Bruce sees him for what he really is: cruel mouth, eyes blaring red, black leather wings, dark and horrid and dangerous like the very place he came from. Bruce pushes him away before their mouths have a chance to meet, gets up to stand on shaky legs.

“Why me?” He asks angrily. If only he could understand, then he would find a solution to end this madness once and for all. Kal is still on the floor, smiling as if nothing happened.

“I’ve already told you, Bruce. We’re destined to be together.” The demon gets up as well, wings flapping delicately. “It was written in the stars when the Earth was still young. Your God was there too and did nothing to change your destiny. You keep on praising someone who has forgotten about your kind a long, long time ago.”

“You lie,” Bruce says through greeted teeth. “Do I? Has He ever spoken to you directly? Have you seen any of His miracles with your own eyes? Is He the reason why you don’t wear the cape and the cowl anymore? You know the truth, Bruce. It’s already there, deep in your heart. I am more real than He ever was.”

“You’re an abomination.” Bruce’s knuckles are turning white. “Get out of my house.”

“Resistance is futile, my love. You can’t run away from your real nature. You were always destined for greatness, not some silly idolatry of a lesser god…”

“The only lesser god around here is you,” Bruce interrupts him, furious because of the profanities he have witnessed. “I’ve seen through your lies. Thanks to my Lord, I recognize when the evil tries to lure me away from the light.”

“You speak of Him with such an adoration,” Kal sighs with awe. “I can’t wait to hear what kind of things you’re going to say about me.”

“If you don’t leave right now, you’ll get an earful.”

“Oh no, I don’t mean all those insults you’ve thrown at me since the day we’ve met.” The demon takes a step forward. “There will be a time when you’ll speak highly of me. Softly. With words reserved for lovers. Don’t worry,” the wicked grin is back on his face, “I’m sure you still remember how to be a lover.”

Bruce’s heart is racing. He has to find a way out of this. _My Lord, I need you now more than ever before. Please, please help me, all I want is to serve you..._

“Or have you become a virgin again?” It dawns on Bruce that Kal is trying to hypnotize him with his low voice and bright blue eyes, getting closer so slowly that the eye of a mortal can barely catch him moving. “Oh, to be the first one to make you ecstatic… What a prize…” His lips hover over Bruce’s ear. “I bet you taste like heaven.”

“Then why don’t you just get this over with?” Bruce’s back is dripping with sweat. Kal looks at him softly, amused. “Bruce,” he says, “it has to be voluntary. And I know you want it, too. Perhaps what you need is a little more time.”  

He is gone in a blink of an eye. Bruce runs to the bathroom and vomits. His collar is completely soaked with sweat.

\---

Bruce liked being a priest. It was a kinder way of living. Of course there were times when he missed the vigilante lifestyle. Whenever he caught himself reminiscing the past, he was quickly reminded that the Batman was just a product of his pride. It had lead to nothing but death and torment. Finding God prevented him from going insane after Robin’s death. He gave up his wealth to became someone who could make a real change in people’s lives. Love and hope were his main principles now and they brought him peace – the kind of peace he had not felt since the night his parents died. It was a never-ending battle but Bruce celebrated small victories: children getting good grades and staying out of trouble, addicts agreeing to start treatment, former prisoners finding jobs instead of committing another crime. He focused on the people. Justice was in the hands of God and God only. It took him years to understand that.

The citizens of Gotham thought he has gone insane. The media went wild. But they all got quiet after a while. It became clear that Bruce was not joking. He chose to serve. He chose to be humble. Instead of fighting the feeling of powerlessness, he embraced it like an old friend. Being _just_ a good man, _just_ a human was like a patch for his wounded soul.

Parishioners described father Bruce as “harsh, but just”. Despite his rather grumpy nature, children of all ages gravitated towards him. His clergy house was always open, especially for kids from the poorer parts of Gotham who were looking for a quiet place to do their homework. For adults he was a steady ship in the storm, always ready to become whatever they needed: a cold judge of character, a compassionate listener, a wise friend. It made him happy. Or so he thought.

\---

_“The men of Nineveh shall stand up in the judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: for they repented at the preaching of Jonah; and behold, a greater than Jonah is here.”_

“Father, what will you preach about this Sunday?” Before he looks up from the worn out copy of the Bible, Bruce already knows it is Olivia: she has some problems with pronouncing “r”.

“Hi Olivia. Well, I’m not really sure yet. I want to ask some very important questions.” He waves at Olivia’s parents, both loyal parishioners, walking down the alley nearby. Robinson Park looks beautiful this time of year. “Like what?” She asks.

“Like… Can forgiveness and redemption replace justice?”

“Okay,” she says, chewing on a red Twizzler. “You think I should talk about something else?” Bruce smiles at her encouragingly.

“I like it when you talk about Jesus. And mir… mirrr…”

“Miracles?”

“Yes!”

His heart skips a beat. This is everything he wants. A clear sign from God Himself that he is doing the right thing. A vision, a dream, a stigma, a miracle witnessed – anything to get rid of the fear that he has been shouting into the void. These wishes make him feel guilty: it is not in his right to ask for proof. Faith is believing, and he was always a privileged man who took too many things for granted. Greedy. Arrogant. “You know what, Olivia?” He says, swallowing his pride, “that is actually a great idea.”

\---

Most of the times, celibacy is not a problem. Bruce can easily suppress sexual drive with work out. It has been ten years since he gave up the cowl, yet he is still in very good shape. People notice: women flaunt their legs and breasts on Sunday mass, men get a little too close in the sacristy. It bothered him at first, but now he feels completely detached from desire. Aloof. That was until the dreams started.

He woke up one day in sticky sheets. Surprised, he brushed it off immediately as the last spring of an aging man. He did not remember the dream anyway. Unfortunately for his poor soul, each and every night brought new details: cascade of dark curls against the pillow, soft skin, obscenely beautiful lips moaning _love me, love me_ right into his ear, and he listened, dear God, in the dead of night he listened to it like it was angel choir. Soon it became obvious he was dreaming the same dream over and over again. The same _person._ Bruce was almost certain he have not met the man before. The vision seemed to be made up from fragments of old paintings and sacral art, more of a phenomenon than a living person. Bruce shrugged, put some bromine in his evening tea, and convinced himself it meant nothing.

\---

“Are you alright, father?”

Bruce is taken aback by the worry in the guard’s voice. Usually they did not exchange a word, typical pleasantries aside. “Yes. I’m good.” He has always been a smooth liar. Serving God have not changed that. “The crazies are getting under your skin, don’t they?” The woman in uniform does not even try to hide her disgust. “It happens to all of us. You can’t work here for too long cause you’ll become like them. No one will think bad of you if you resign. Just saying.” Bruce hands her the bulletproof jacket. “Thank you for your concern but I’m fine. Really.” He smirks to defuse the atmosphere. “I need a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

“Yeah, seeing these maniacs isn’t exactly a lullaby, right?” she says.

“There’s still hope… for some of them,” Bruce says with just a touch of bitterness. “God is merciful. I pray for them to step into the light.”

She gives him _the look,_ one he got to know well over the years. _So you’re actually crazy, everyone keep telling that,_ her eyes say, _giving up all that money and good life for some gospel bullshit, what the fuck is wrong with you?_

“See you next week, father. Get some rest.”

In the end she is not actually wrong. Arkham Asylum is one of the few places where Bruce does not feel like he is being followed.

\---

Everyone has these moments when they see something out of the corner of their eye, only to realize there is nothing to be seen. Bruce is not an exception. Often he noticed something moving and disappearing immediately by his side. It usually happened when he was relaxed and let his mind wander aimlessly. His imagination lead him to the familiar world of dark alleys, city rooftops, hunting, fighting, breathing in the smell of fresh blood and bullets and there he was, the beautiful man walking out from the realm of dreams straight to Bruce’s thoughts. He could almost feel hot lips brushing against his ear, whispering _I have more love in me than all of the daughters of Jerusalem._ The candle’s flame trembled when the creature sighed longingly. It was over in the blink of an eye.

But it never really left, that _thing_ moving. Bruce is not alone anymore.

\---

Alfred calls Bruce twice a year – on his birthday and Christmas – from whichever part of the globe he is currently visiting. “Are you happy?” He asks, clearly expecting an honest answer. Bruce sees something out of the corner of his eye; should he tell Alfred? Would it make him sound insane? Worse than the things he have done in the past? “I’m alright. Just tired.”

“Are you alone? Is this a bad time?” A ghostly caress travels from Bruce’s neck to his shoulder, sending shivers down his spine. “No,” he says quietly. “I’m all by myself.”

“Funny. I could swear I heard someone else in there.”

\---

Bruce should have reacted right away. Be truthful during his confessions. Call the exorcist if necessary. He did none of these things because… because he felt lonely. Because he was touch-starved. Because this ghostly presence satisfied the need he refused to acknowledge for years. It was just a dream, if a pleasant one. There were moments when it felt real. One night, just after 3 AM, Bruce woke up suddenly. He could swear there was someone else lying in his bed, right behind his back. The weird sensation pressed on his body and dipped the bed, warm and carnal in an unexplainable way. The strangest thing was that Bruce did not panic. He missed sharing a bed with someone. Even if his mind was playing tricks on him, the lure of domestic comfort was too hard to resist. He laid with the delusion for a long while. Then he slightly moved his leg, and suddenly it was all gone; it made him wistful.

Now, months later, Bruce thinks that it must have been an invitation.

\--- 

“What are you?!” Bruce yelled.

“Do not be frightened” it said, voice light and dulcet.  

 _“_ _Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”_ That passage was one of Bruce’s favorites. “What do you want? Who have sent you?!” A radiant smile bloomed on the creature’s face. “You,” it whispered, “and… you.”

Bruce recognized the man from his dreams, now in the flesh, more beautiful than the gardens of Eden. “My name is Kal-El,” he said. His robes are blue, red wings folded neatly behind his back – the perfect image of an angel from the children’s Bible. “I answered your call.”

“I’ve never called for you.” Bruce is not a fool. He is not buying the pleasant form and silky voice. That is not a bird of paradise kneeling beside his bed. “Haven’t you?” Kal quirks an eyebrow. “Were you not just touching yourself, thinking about me?” He sits on the bed, his palm resting near Bruce’s thigh. “I’m all yours now.” Bruce shuts his eyes firmly. _This isn’t happening,_ he tells himself. “Don’t fight it, my love. It’s destiny.” They way Kal speaks must have remained unchanged since the temptation of Eve. At once Bruce realizes he is fully, painfully hard. He rolls on his side, covers his head like a kid during stormy night and prays. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth…” Over and over again, like a mantra, until he is sure the creature has left.

\---

Pills do not work. Alcohol does not work. Neither does praying for hours on the cold hard floor. Kal-El was real and Bruce did not want to want him, but oh, he _did._ He daydreamed about the body underneath those colorful robes, about sinking his teeth into the honeymilk skin. He wondered if Kal-El has nipples, a belly button, a cock. If he has a hole and if so, was it tight and soft like a cloud or different from anything he ever experienced. People noticed he was being aloof. His patience was wearing thin quicker than usual. On Sundays he smiled and nodded politely, yet some of the parishioners asked if he was alright. Even though Kal showed up only in the clergy house, his charm worked. He was on Bruce’s mind all the time.

\---

“If you have been touched by a demon, it’s like being touched by the backhand of God.” Kal sits on the window sill, eyes fixated on Bruce who is praying in silence. “Makes you sacred in a way, don’t you think? Makes you the chosen one.” He moves closer, his rich robes scraping the floor with a quiet swish. “Possession brings you closer to Him than holy communion. You should feel happy. Your Lord acknowledged you after all those years. I’m the proof.”

“If it truly was my Lord’s wish to send you here, you’re nothing but a test,” Bruce says coldly. “I don’t intend to fail.” Kal smirks. “What if I’m a reward for your faithful service?”

“Service is the reward.” The creature chuckles softly behind his back and says: “You actually think you believe in that. A brilliant brain trying to trick itself. Must be hard to live in denial… To suppress ones true nature.” His voice becomes huskier. “But the truth is dark. Sometimes it takes over you, doesn’t it? O’Riley. Jones. Kondratiuk. You remember them, don’t you?”

Bruce’s breath hitches. “Oh yes, I know what you did to them. They had it coming. You acted like a man and they were scared of you.” Kal tentatively touches his arm. “Look closer, Bruce. Look into yourself. See what really makes your blood pump faster. You despise those nice lies. They only fuel your rage. You were always a man of action. Strong. Invincible.” Warm lips press against his neck. “Now tell me you really want me to be gone.”

Bruce squeezes the rosary so hard it hurts his palm. “Go,” he says without hesitation, “and never come back.”

Afterwards he vomits violently, fever burning his body from the inside. But he resisted again: that is all that matters. The rest is in the hands of God.

\---

Father Kenneth O’Riley was a teacher at St. John’s Private School for Boys. He had a type. Everyone knew. No one knew.

Dean Jones was one of Bruce’s most devoted parishioners, famous for his volunteer work and Hollywood smile. Women were nervous around him. Turned out his good looks had nothing to do with it.

Maksym Kondratiuk, a model Catholic, made a fortune on exploiting illegal immigrants from Ukraine.

Bruce did not really want to cause them pain. However he did want to see them behind prison bars. All he had to do was to help the police. Discreetly, or so he planned. Somehow the brutal beating always came as a surprise. Those three were not the only ones who got a taste of his fists. Even though he did not wear a cape – a ski mask and gloves did the trick – it felt like the old times. He felt alive. Sick with guilt. A never-ending cycle. Once the rumor about the Batman coming back from the dead hit the streets, Bruce stopped getting involved. These days his hands often itch from the lack of their daily grind. It was pride and wrath trying to scratch their way out to the surface. He had to work hard to keep them at bay. Whipping was supposed to be a punishment, but sadly it only excited his traitorous body. The only way left was to fast and pray vigorously, hoping for the divine grace to end this torment that consumed his mind and body like burning flames.

\---

Jessie, a happy-go-lucky ten year old is missing. Last time anyone has seen him was over forty hours ago. Bruce did his best to comfort his parents, even stayed for dinner when asked. It is getting close to midnight. The wind swipes dead leaves underneath Bruce’s feet as he walks through the small cemetery to the chapel. He probably will not get any sleep tonight, so he might as well stay up and pray for Jessie to come home safely. Everything is quiet… Too quiet. Bruce sees something out of the corner of his eye. He turns around to see Kal-El standing behind an old-fashioned cemetery gates. The demon holds the bars tightly. He sends pining, almost heartbroken looks to Bruce, as if it hurts him to be so close and yet so far away. It is the first time when he shows up outside of Bruce’s bedroom.

The priest makes sure they are all alone, then ask cautiously: “Do you know where’s Jessie?”

“Who?” Kal seems unfazed by the question. Bruce swallows. “A child is missing. A boy, ten years old.” He takes a step towards the gate. “About five feet tall, brown hair. You… could find him, right?” The demon does not even blink. “It’s pretty bold of you to ask me for a favor. Especially after all these times when you were unkind to me.”

“Can you do it?” Bruce demands. Kal sighs and pouts just a little. The gesture makes him look like a cherub. “It’s certainly not impossible,” he says. Bruce should have known better than to ask: “Will you do it?” Suddenly Kal seems _very_ interested. “What’s in it for me, priest?”

This is a mistake. He is basically making a pact with the devil. The pope himself would have to pardon a sin like that. But Jessie… All Bruce wants is to safe this child. Is that not a clear sign of virtue? “I’ll give you a kiss,” he says. The demon visibly lightens up. “Just a kiss, and then you’ll tell me where the boy is.”

“Tempting,” Kal’s lips seem to tremble with anticipation. “I accept the offer. Let me in.” Bruce shakes his head slightly. “I’m not going to let you step on a holy ground.” Kal-El barks out a laughter. “You love to complicate things, Bruce. Fine then.” His eyes shine with their own light, brighter than the full moon above their heads. “Come closer,” he whispers sweetly.

It is just a couple of steps, but the walk feels like an eternity. Bruce’s feet are making their way through a magma of some sort. The air stands still. He observes Kal’s beautiful features, the sharp line of his jaw, high cheekbones and surprisingly soft eyes, and his lips… not too big, not to small, with a prominent Cupid’s bow, pink like rose petals…

Bruce really has to stop staring. He closes his eyes, determined to not derive any pleasures from this. It all goes down when he leans in and hears the demon whimper quietly, and then he is lost. Kal’s mouth is like morning dew, so fresh and nourishing, and in that moment Bruce knows for sure one kiss is never going to be enough. He is lightheaded. Thoughtless. The palm suddenly pressing on his crotch makes him loose his breath. Bruce moans, letting their tongues mingle. The gate stands in the way of taking things forward, and right now all Bruce wants is to go too far and never come back. Kal works at Bruce’s zipper and then drops to his knees, ready to pleasure him. “Take my mouth,” he whispers seductively, “all I want is you…” His hot breath sends shivers through Bruce’s body. “All of you… I’ll bring you the boy, just let me have you first…”

Bruce’s eyes open up wide. At once he is reminded of the deal they have made. He shoves Kal away and stumbles backwards. The demon puts a lot of work into looking like he is hurt, but Bruce can see the sheer anger boiling his blood. “Find the boy,” Bruce orders, trying to sound authoritative. Kal-El slowly gets up from the ground, wings flapping gently. “A deal’s a deal,” he says and vanishes.

A couple of hours later, the windows in Bruce’s church freeze over. He watches all keyed-up as letters written in frost create a message: _292 Cooper Ave._

\---

Jessie’s body was found in the early hours of the morning. The killer managed to ran away from the police ambush. No one really asks about the anonymous caller who provided the address.

Bruce stays silent as Jessie’s mother cries her eyes out. Her husband is distant, stiff, like his heart has been ripped from his body. After all this is exactly what happened. He does not even try to offer them any comforting words. Just a prayer. Always a prayer. They have planned a small funeral, but the whole block showed up anyway. It was a rainy day. Bruce prepared a very short speech, hoping everyone will attribute it to the shock. He could not turn a blind eye to their hurt, disoriented looks. They wanted answers. Why? Why this little boy had to die? What is the purpose of living? Why evil like that has to exist? Why does God allow suffering?

Fortunately they do not ask him directly. Perhaps they are too scared of hearing the answers they already have in the dark corners of their souls. Bruce has them too. So he and his parishioners pretend all this still has sense while Jessie’s tiny, cold body rests six feet under. The worst part is that he probably died aware of the horrible truth. Will that knowledge ban him from heaven?

That night Bruce mixes sleeping pills with bourbon. Emptiness greets him like an old friend.

\---

Bruce spends most of the following days in a haze. Numb. He sits in the front row of the church, fidgeting with his rosary. All the hail marys in the world will not bring Jessie back to life, but saying the prayer over and over again is almost like meditation. He does not even flinch when the doors fly open at 3 AM. The lights flicker faintly. A cold rush of air blows out the candles.

“You’re hurting.” Kal-El sounds genuinely concerned. He puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, the touch carrying a promise of bliss. “Don’t blame yourself, my love. There’s nothing you could do for that poor child.”

“Were you able to do something?” Bruce asks, indifferent. The demon goes stiff as a board. “I didn’t cause any harm to the boy. When I showed up, it was already too late.”

“Of course,” Bruce says. He stays still as Kal’s soft hands caress his neck and shoulders, giving Bruce a gentle massage. It feels nice. Very nice. No need to fight it. “I’ve sent a demon to save a little boy’s life. God didn’t even bother to keep him safe in the first place.” Swift fingers work out the tension he has been carrying between his shoulder blades. It has been bothering him for ages. “I don’t see why would He allow it to happen. Why is He passive when so much evil exists in the world. I don’t understand.”

“Forget about Him, my love,” the demon whispers softly, “He doesn’t deserve to have you as His servant.”

“All my life I thought I had the power to make a change,” Bruce says. “I wanted for the world to make sense. When I failed, I trusted that God has a plan. I don’t believe that anymore. No matter how much I beg, I don’t see the light.”

“You carry so much guilt,” Kal says with sympathy and strokes his hair. Bruce feels a rush of warmth spreading lazily in the lower parts of his body, making him a little less dead. “None of this was your fault. You’ve been working so hard. Trying to do the right thing and for what? No one appreciates your efforts.”

“Yes,” the priest agrees. These are the things he wanted to hear for so long. He is just so, so tired. “Is it really so awful to expect… a sign?”

“Not at all. I’m listening. I’m here for you.”

And that is the difference. Where God is absent, Kal-El is there. When God is silent, Kal-El speaks. So far he is more real than anything else about Bruce’s faith. The church, the Bible, the cross: these are just empty things. Holy spirit is a phantom while Kal… Kal is flesh and blood and divinity all at once. Bruce does not protest when their lips meet. He keeps his eyes open, marveling at the length of Kal’s dark eyelashes. The kiss is so much more satisfying than the one they have shared at the gates. The memory was enough to set Bruce’s soul on fire, but the colors fade when compared to the slow dance of tongues they are performing right now.

“Let go, my love.” _Bite the apple, Eve._

Bruce closes his eyes and opens his mouth wider. Kal plunges into it like it is a source of eternal life. Suddenly Bruce’s lap is full of this beautiful creature, a dash of infinite power offering him nothing but the sweetest submission. It goes to his head. His hands cannot get enough of the hot, hard body pressed against his own. The wings feel amazing under his fingers, make him think of what it feels like to fly above the clouds, free and careless. The taste of Kal’s lips gives him a flash of this sensation. Blood thumps in his ears when he bites down on the creamy skin, exposed by the robes falling from Kal’s shoulders.

They must have seen him, the old masters of fine arts. This must be the same figure that has been immortalized in hundreds of sculptures and paintings. The greatest muse of the millennium, a demon’s spawn who’s visage was recreated by men for the glory of God, now writhes and moans in the small church of Gotham to get what it wants.

Kal wastes no time: he frees Bruce’s aching cock, gives it a good squeeze before hoicking up his own robes. The heavy smell of rose oil fills up the entire place. Bruce’s hand wanders down. His curiosity is finally satisfied: yes, Kal has a cock, long and velvety, and upon further inspection Bruce discovers – his breathing hitches – that the demon has a hole as well. Tight, hot, and wet with rose oil. He holds Kal by the hips as he lowers himself down on Bruce’s dick.

 _“Aah!”_ Kal’s high-pitched moan reaches the rooftop. He is squirming like a virgin while Bruce gets blinded by the pleasure. “Nothing sweeter than a cock of a holy man,” Kal whispers and slowly rocks his hips. It feels like staring at the sun, too much... Too good… Bruce is certain of one thing and one thing only: he will never, ever regret this. He waits for the earth to open and send him directly to hell as he is unapologetic about the heresy he is committing.

The air does not change. The walls do not crumble, the gates of hell remain closed. The statue of Jesus have not shed a single bloody tear over losing a loyal servant. The holy water does not boil. Bruce thinks that if something was ever about to happen, it should happen _now._ As it is, it only proves the truth he has always known. The rage takes over him when he thinks of the days he has wasted on pointless rituals while he could have been useful. All these beautiful words, humbleness, patience, they did not mean anything.

He lifts his lover up and moves them to the altar. Kal lays on it obediently as never before. Flapping of the wings sends antique candle holders to the floor. Bruce could not give less of a damn even if he tried. “Spread your legs,” he orders, barely recognizing his own voice. He forces himself in, determined to find relief in that sweet spot, grunting when he cannot find the right rhythm. He is out of practice and he _hates_ it, so he channels all that wrath and disappointment into brutal thrusts.

“They’ve told me you were different but I didn’t believe them…” For all of his elegant words, Kal-El moans prettier than the Whore of Babylon. “I’ve never had a man like you…” He grabs Bruce’s cassock to bring him closer and accidentally rips the rosary. Colorful beads fall on the concrete, roll silently in various directions as the sinful creature reaches orgasm. There is naked beauty in the way he throws his head to the back, crying out Bruce’s name like it is a bedroom hymn. “Don’t stop fucking me,” he says, his dick spilling hot cum everywhere. Bruce listens and puts his back into it, ready to finally feel good…

He looks up at the stained glass window. It presents Archangel Michael fighting the Dragon.

Bruce is shattered by the sudden realization of how new demons are born.

He tries to get away but Kal sees right through him. They end up on the ground. Kal shows off his strength as he keeps Bruce in place and fiercely rides his dick. “Come, come on, I know you want to…”

“No!” Bruce tries to stop it, but it is too late: his balls tighten, the shaft pulsates. Pleasure makes his entire body come alive, fills him with eternal light he had craved for so long. Kal-El smiles, biting on his lower lip as Bruce pumps his semen right into him. His curls are a beautiful mess that creates something resembling a halo. “Now we walk together,” he says. Sweet as honey, dark as sin.

\---

The Batman came back to Gotham. Brutal, powerful. Whispers in the dark tell stories of how he has sold his soul to the Devil. Others claim he is the Devil himself, and that now he has beastly companions from hell. People share stories about his unnatural powers in the bars; they quickly get shushed by the patrons – it is bad luck to talk about _him._ No one should ever count on Batman’s mercy. No man is safe. Once again, fear rules on the streets. Bruce knows it is the only way, for darkness restores what the light cannot repair.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] Anointed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767173) by [Liodain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Liodain)




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